John Watson's Anatomy

John is full of contradictions, riddled with features, mores, and manners that just should not work, much less unite so seamlessly that, when you look at John Watson, while you could look away, you sure-as-damn-hell choose not to.

That mouth, shall we start there?

John's mouth is broad and thin-lipped, sort of there and not there really. It's sometimes sweary, shockingly so, especially when it doesn't strictly have to be. But the strangest feature of that mouth is that it's prone to frowns that somehow still make John look like he's smiling. Sherlock's not sure that's even possible.

Those hands, have you seen them?

There's no other way to put it: John's hands are right. They're not the willowy things of his lover, they're hands that can hold, help, heal. John's hands can lift a man when he's fallen, they can soothe a child who's hurt, they will touch with great gentleness when that's needed—which frankly, it always is, even in the middle of a war—but those hands are also broad, capable, so very strong. They are steady hands, sure, and the only man who has ever seen them shake is also the one who's caused the trembling.

That walk, did you notice it?

It's not a strut, a stroll, or a saunter, John's walk. It's not remotely patient or uncertain. It's a tramp, a stride, a kicking-arse-and-taking-names kind of march, it's a bigger-than-he-seems prowl, and frankly the first time Sherlock saw it he thought John was over-compensating. Within a few days he realized the good doctor was only playing fair. See this? that stride said to any who cared to hear, this is me not taking shit. This is me never taking shit should shit you choose to give. So don't. Don't even try. Seriously. Then, when at rest, John's smile, the casual way he clasps his hands behind his back, they provide the epilogue: Are we good now? Great. Thanks. Cheers. Is it any wonder Sherlock find's his tiny tyrant fascinating?

John's clothes, oh god where to start?

The rubbish tip perhaps? But no, somehow the checked shirts, shapeless jumpers, the half-size-too-large jeans work, and by 'work' their function seems confined to being so casual and plain that they actually wave metaphorical arms and scream, "Bad ass mother fucker coming through! Seriously, step back because this little guy's so beyond fierce he could wear a pink tu-tu and still take you down first go with a Browning L9A1 or three well-placed words of polite invective, so stand the fuck back. No, seriously."

Oh, and speaking of little, John is. Obviously.

In a world where men are usually a good half-head or more taller than he is, John stands out among them like a tiny beacon of…tiny. Yes, you heard that right: there's something about him that is expressly, clearly, and boldly small. You don't not know John's short. You'll never not know he's short. Yet the whole point of realizing how short John is seems to be so that that very shortness can say calmly and without complex so the hell what? You expect size matters do you? Well go right ahead, have your expectations, feel free. But step aside would you, I'm busy defying them, all right? All right.

Well, while we're defying expectation, who expects fierce to also come with a side of fluffy?

Because John Watson isn't all sharp tongue, marching stride, and bad ass mother fuckering, no ma'am he's not. He's also tender, soft, sweet. When Sherlock pokes at his bit of a belly—and he often does though we won't say precisely with what—John wriggles a little, giggling, because he's a bit sensitive there. Just a touch. When his lover is impossible, or brilliant, short-tempered, or kind, no matter what the moody detective decides to be, John will always, of a morning, take all the time that's required to kiss his love gently-softly-slowly, until they're both awake, both smiling, both very, very aware that what they have is quite nearly perfect, and oh-most-certainly rare.

Ah, and speaking of rare…

When the doctor first met the detective everyone expected their relationship to flame out fast. After all, no one else could work with the cranky genius, and the semi-suicidal ex-soldier wasn't exactly a prize, so good luck gents, whoever shoots the other first just try to keep the mess to a minimum, okay? Well that's not what happened of course, the whole world knows that that's not what happened. Instead a miracle occurred, John and Sherlock became: John and Sherlock. Because you can't really say the one without the other anymore, can you? John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. They're a unit of measure now, a single entity, a set. Where goes one the other follows. And always, forever, will.

Oh this doesn't really begin to cover the anatomy of John Watson, but it's a bit of a start. A primer if you will. It's enough to be going on with, enough to let a good and serious student understand just what an uncommon creature John Watson is. Not that it precisely matters that you know that, really, no. Frankly it doesn't matter at all.

To the one man it most matters to…well he already knows all of these things. Of course he does. He knows more about John Watson than anyone else ever will. And that simple fact? That beautiful elegant fact warms the most tender and precious part of John Watson's anatomy: His heart.

Written for Livia Carica.